A Communion
by Elizabeth Collins
Summary: A group of ghosts discuss plots during the full moon. Slightly humourous. Written for TPE's October Challenge.


A Communion

"_At first cock-crow_

_The ghosts must go_

_Back to their quiet graves below."_

_-Theodosia Garrison_

Mist loomed over the graveyard of Corus. Harsh wind whistled through semi-bare trees. Moss stretched, stones crumbled, and vines twined. The sky was purple, and the moon was full—which meant only one thing.

There was to be the communion tonight.

It happened once a month—every full moon; and now it was autumn. The ghosts had been restless, tossing and turning in their respective tombs all over Corus, and they would finally meet outside the forbidden shrine of the Graveyard Hag.

They waited. Every ghost's breath was held; every ghost's feet danced in anticipation.

A piece of stone from the Hag's crumbling statue broke off and rolled through the grass, gaining speed from the chill wind. This was their signal. Silence. Then ghosts of all personalities, sizes, and shapes; good and evil; young and old; glided from buildings, castles, and houses to arrive in a remote, abandoned place which held the goddess's shrine.

Some recognized each other from life, or from the previous communion. Other ghosts were more recent. They talked, yelled, pushed; some even started a loud, boisterous song.

"Silence!" A quivery voice yelled over the din. "Sit down, wait for the rats!" It was one of the ghosts who were loyal worshippers of Carthak's patron goddess; one of the few present who actually had good intentions. Everyone quieted down, save for a few occasional whisperers. The ghost waved his ringed hands toward the shrine. There was a faint scuttling noise, like that of small claws, and then rats poured out, carrying trays of flatbread, candles, and jugs of wine, all while standing on their hind legs. Once everyone's attention was off the rats, a particularly heavyset ghost holding a stubby candle cleared his throat. "I, the former Lord of Anak's Eyrie, have noted that the people of Veldine are having too much fun. They're trading unfairly with my fief, and I demand something to be done, and be done _now."_

His face was clear in the candlelight; hot wax dripped down his ethereal hand without so much as a moan.

"Hush, Lord Arving," a regal ghost replied, turning in his direction. "Something will be done, whether it be blazebalm, arrows, or a couple of our mages, something will be done."

"Yes, yes. I support the idea of blazebalm," long-dead Blayce the Gallan piped up.

"We'll figure something out," the regal ghost said patiently, sipping dry red wine. His legs were crossed, the picture of casualty. "And, in case anyone forgot, I'm Joren of Stone Mountain. I know what it feels like to be treated unfairly."

"Yes, that Keladry of Mindelan... lady knight indeed. Oh, I will get her," growled Joren's father from next to him.

"Does anyone remember Wyldon of Cavall? He loves the girl now. Conservatives can definitely change their ways," an old magistrate added. "And you, boy," he said, turning to Joren, "I remember you...you're the one that died in the Chamber, eh?"

Joren glared at him as everyone started whispering.

"_Really?"_

"_What was it like?"_

"_I wonder how Cavall took that..."_

"_Oh, I haven't met one in years..."_

"_Go on, tell us what happened..."_

"Fine," Joren huffed, arrogance taking the better of him. Sometimes on peaceful, less pressing communions, they would exchange tales of their deaths.

Everyone leaned closer.

"Eh-hem," a tall, handsome ghost interrupted, breaking up the tension. "Have we forgotten our object already? A certain King must be - 'taken care of' if you will -" he breathed deeply; his nostrils flaring, and paused. "Something must be done about Jonathan of Conte." His formerly sapphire eyes pierced through his audience; his charisma was almost tangible. They changed the topic at once.

"Ah, yes. _Jonathan _of Conte," someone sneered. "What an excuse for a king." He spat out nonexistent saliva.

"Just like his grandfather."

All the ghosts hunched together, trading stories about the changes Jonathan made to Tortall, or criticizing his ancestor, King Jasson. Only the ghost who had spoken sat apart from everyone else, listening.

He smiled; it was a sinister smile."I failed in killing him," his voice resounded through the crowd now, "Someone else must succeed."

"He's getting older now. He might just get cradled to the Black God from old age," a logical ghost remarked.

"No, don't you see? My life was snuffed out by violence; therefore, his will be extinguished by violence, cruel violence." This was all said without the slightest change in his demeanor.

"In what way do you plan on killing him?" Joren asked, his now transparent hair crackling with eagerness.

"I want blood; I want vengeance." He sunk into his own thoughts, all majestic artifice gone. Now he was the real Roger, the brutal Roger, all respect for the "colleagues" around him evaporated. _Joren of Stone Mountain. I knew he was an interfering dog, but would he get involved with the likes of me? And yes, definitely blood, involving a sword as well. Like I said, I got killed the way I did, he dies the same way._

A ghost shifted in his seat. "We'd best get to it sir, because it's almost sunrise."

"Remember? We must all be back in our tombs by cock-crow."

Everyone's heads turned to the moon, which was disappearing fast. The tall ghost, otherwise identified as Duke Roger of Conte, turned to Joren. His famous, now transparent eyes penetrated him, but it wasn't a friendly look. It was the look that you would give to a distant comrade, or even rival. "Will you, Joren of Stone Mountain, be willing to darken the doorstep of the Royal Palace—or in our case—brighten it, and slay King Jonathan of Conte?"

_"Slay _the king? You wouldn't dare! He's a monarch, and a good one for heaven's sake -" squawked the ringed man.

"Quiet." The ghost commanded. "If I had my magic with me, you'd be a pile of ash. Continue please, Joren."

"Joren, I knew you," a feeble ghost said shakily. "How could you? I can't stand by and watch my old home fall to pieces -"

The young man silenced him with a look. "Yes, I will." He answered, a slight waver in his voice.

_He was at King's chamber; at the threshold. Guards stood everywhere, but he was invisible; the crime would stay anonymous. Triumphant, he slid through the crack in the door and found himself in a vast room. It enveloped him in an inviting embrace; the goodness of the monarchs surged through every nook and cranny. No. He fought it off coldly. That man accepted Keladry of Mindelan. He let a girl besmirch the beauty of the Royal Palace, he let her scum trail on the floor. No. He was not going to fall for this._

_The king lay on his immense bed, his eyes closed, breathing peacefully. Joren looked at him, disgusted. He would end this, this growing acceptance of women and girls; he'd extinguish this undeserving life. Unfeelingly, he snatched the dagger from his pocket and-_

"Very well." The Duke brushed his fingers over Joren's head in something like a pat, and said loudly, "Meeting adjourned. Until next month."


End file.
